Dawnguard: Heirs to the Blood
by Savior 8801
Summary: Thirty years after the defeat of the World-Eater, a new threat is emerging from the shadows, a menacing darkness that will engulf the world. Now, the heirs of gods and demons are the only ones standing between the mortal races and eternal night. Fem!Dovahkiin/Serana, femslash, rated M for violence, coarse language and mild (for now) sexual content.
1. Prologue: A Fateful Night

A/N: For those of you who know me, first and foremost, an apology if you're disappointed reading this. If I'm on any of your subscriptions, odds are it's because of "Entre l'Amour et la Mort". I'm sorry I'm not presenting you with a new chapter tonight. I know I left the story at a cruel place, but I've been writing it for a very long while now. In fact, I've only ever written Hollows stuff, even though I haven't been able to stomach those books for over two years now. That's a lot of time writing about stories, characters and plots I stopped caring about. I'm not abandoning "Entre", but I am taking a break from it and trying my hand at something different. It's still femslash, and it's actually also about a black-haired vampire princess. She's not Ivy Tamwood, but then again, who is?

To those who don't know me. A big thanks for clicking that link and taking a chance. I hope you enjoy my take on the Dawnguard storyline.

And finally, a big thank you to the elder scroll wiki contributors for helping me nail as many historic details from the elder scroll universe as I could. If it tastes authentic, it's thanks to these folks. If it doesn't... my bad?

Prologue: A fateful night

One could learn a lot from listening to the ambient noises filling the common room of the Winking Skeever Inn. Winter may have given way to spring twenty-seven times since the end of the last civil war, in which the rebellious Stormcloaks had won the independence of their lands from the Cyrodiilic Empire, but still the discontented whispers remained, filling the dark corners of these once cheerful halls. It was to be expected in this city of Solitude; the former capital was the last bastion of the Empire to fall in the rebellions. No amounts of mead or ale could wash the bitter taste of defeat from these mouths. Nord honour tends to hold on to grudges, like blood seeped into a cloth that was never to be clean again. No amount of mercy could sway their hearts either, not even the grace our current High King and then victorious rebel leader had granted to Solitude's queen, not only in sparing her life but in allowing her to keep a title of Jarl as well her hold.

The civil war had been long and bloody, its cause rooted in the great conflict between the Empire and the Elven Aldmeri Dominion, a supremacist faction of elves. Over fifty years ago, a united force of Bosmer and Altmer out of Valenwood and the Summerset Isles presented emperor Titus Medes the Second with an impossible ultimatum. He was to surrender a large portion of the Empire's western-most province to the Thalmor, the Dominion's ruling body; to allow its agents oversight into his entire government; to disband the secretive order of elite spies and assorted agents known as the Blades; and finally, to outlaw the worship of Talos, the hero-god of mankind, ascended from mortality for his unparallel deeds in life, and an unparallel affront to mer who clung to ideals predating the ascendency of men. Refusal to comply would result in open war, and refusal was the emperor's swift and unadulterated reply to this sudden and unprovoked challenge, prompting an immediate, theatrical response from the Dominion; to send the heads of every Blade agent who had been active in the Dominion's territory to the Imperial palace.

Thus had begun the Great War. The Dominion's relentless onslaught lasted five long, bloody years. Five years of untold carnage and atrocities, the crux of which was the sacking of the Imperial City itself. Though the battle lines shifted many times, often in favour of the elves, the Empire held strong, eventually fighting its enemies into a standstill, in no small part due to the heroic efforts of the Redguards of the province of Hammerfell, and my own people, the Nords of Skyrim. The price in blood was steep; the extent of the devastation defying comprehension, but a clear victory remained elusive. Rather than keep fighting what many had begun to feel was a pointless war, Titus Medes opened talks once more with the Thalmor. The peace treaty between both powers was known as the White-Gold Concordat, an accord heavily favouring the Thalmor and in essence giving in to their demands, just as they were before the war. Needless to say, the terms did not go down easily for everyone. Imperials and their Bretons ally were more than glad just to achieve peace, no matter the cost; Nords and Redguards were not convinced. Included in the terms of the treaty was the ceding of much of Hammerfell to the Dominion, as well as the outlaw of the worship of Talos, who in life had been Tiber Septim, greatest of Nord heroes. The Redguard forces returned to their homeland to fight on, eventually managing to secure their borders against the Dominion, despite the Empire upholding the Concordat by rejecting Hammerfell as an Imperial province and abandoning them to their fates. The Nord legions grudgingly marched back to Skyrim, only to find their own homeland, spared by war thus far, far different from what they had left.

Thalmor emissaries now walked the streets of their cities, as was the elves' right under the new treaty, ensuring the complete obliteration of the clergy of the ninth. Those who did not comply were simply dragged away into the night while their families watched powerlessly. Skyrim's former blessing, to have remained unspoiled by the great war due to its location on the opposite of the continent from the Dominion, became a curse once the Empire levied the funds it required to rebuild from whichever province could provide them. With Hammerfell lost, Dominion influence overriding Imperial authority in Elseweyr, and the Dark Elf province of Morrowind still recovering from the eruption of the red mountain over a century prior, much of that financial burden fell upon the prosperous cities of Skyrim and High Rock. The Nords' reward for the blood they spilled away from their homeland was impoverishment and indentured servitude to overlords that despised them, and watching from a distance while their Redguard brothers-in-arms achieved the victory they were denied by Thalmor appeasers. To many, this was too much to take, none more so than Ulfric Stormcloak, a veteran of the Great War and son to the deceased Jarl of Windhelm, the oldest human city in all of Tamriel. Sparks of discord began to ignite in his wake as he came into his title and birthright; his outspoken cries against the Empire he felt had failed the Nords became the epicenter of a of genuine movement of rebellion and independence that swept across Skyrim, named after their leader, the Stormcloaks. So great was the discontent, so many were the voices that joined his, that it was not long before he had the followers required to attempt a coup and make a play for the crown.

In accordance with ancient Nordic custom, Ulfric challenged and defeated the former High King Torygg in a duel to the death, declaring his intentions in the most spectacular fashion a Nord could. In one fell swoop, the usurper tore his opponent apart, by summoning the ancient and sacred power of the Voice, or Thu'um, in the dragon tongue. The honour of Ulfric's victory is a point of history many in Skyrim disagree on to this day. Many claim the power of the Thu'um made the duel a ritualised murder at best. Others, that the Thu'um is no less rooted in the lore and traditions of Skyrim as any martial prowess, and that employing it was no less honourable than striking down the king with a blade. Regardless, the point is moot. Ulfric's claim to the crown was rejected by Torygg's widow Elisif the fair, who sought out Imperial aid to defend the legitimacy of her own rule. Civil war was unavoidable.

In a strange twist of fate, Ulfric very nearly met the same fate the Empire did in the previous war against the Thalmor. Towards the end of the war, some thirty years ago, the Jarl of Windhelm fell victim to an Imperial ambush near Skyrim's southern border. Bound and gagged, on his way to the headsman's block, the end of the road appeared to be drawing near for the would-be king. Along with his men and a handful of unfortunate souls, Ulfric was taken to the fortress town of Helgen, where an unceremonious summary execution awaited him under the watchful gaze of Imperial general Tulius and Thalmor ambassador to Skyrim Elenwen.

Fate, however, always had a sense of humour.

That day in Helgen turned out to be more pivotal than any mortal could have conceived; it coincided with the first recorded dragon attack in over two whole eras, and the beginning of what would become known as the dragon crisis. Helgen was burned to the ground by a single, seemingly invincible beast that day, leaving scores of charred corpses behind in the ruins. Yet despite being taken prisoner, the rebel Jarl escaped, for all intents and purposes unscathed, with his followers and a new ally in tow; an unassuming Nord man returning to his homeland from Cyrodiil, captured in the same ambush as the rebels. The Jarl returned to Windhelm, and the waning conflict between Nord brothers waxed once more. From that point forward, however, never again were the loyalists to claim victory. The standstill was shattered, and one by one, starting with Whiterun in the central plains all the way to the coast of Solitude, every city fell. Once more, over the corpses of the last imperial troops and their slain general, Ulfric stared down Elisif the fair, this time, not as two pretenders for the throne, but as conquered and conqueror. From that day forth, Skyrim was free. For better, or worse.

That Elisif still rules Solitude, nay, that she still draws breath to this day is a confounding piece of the riddle that was the Stormcloak victory, one that is often chalked up to simple pragmatism. While Jarl Ulfric's mercy had prevented any further uprisings in the months leading up to his inevitable coronation, the inhabitants of Solitude had never truly gotten over their sudden and resounding defeat at his hand. It did not matter in their minds that once the Dovahkiin, the simple man met at Helgen, now a legendary hero known to more common folks as the Dragonborn, had rejoined the Stormcloak's campaign, the rebel advance had turned into a calamity worthy of Kyne's greatest wrath. That the rest of loyalist Skyrim had, just like them, folded like a house of cards, without exception. It did not matter that the other vanquished had neither fared better in battle or in the aftermath. If anything, it wounded their prides deeper that they were not the ones who could hold the line against that tide. They prided themselves as being a special breed, set apart from more common men. Ironic that they would have share this prideful trait with the "true sons and daughters" of Skyrim that had defeated them

All of that history was echoed in the drone of conversation in the inn's common room, the crackling of the fires and the ballads of the bards not enough to drown out the tales of lost honour or the tense murmurs of impotent conspiracy and dissidence, shared by like-minded individuals who knew they were powerless to change their lot. Skyrim had been its own nation for decades now, but the passage of time was seldom enough to quiet them for any length. Not often does the inn fall silent, like a man lost in the forest holding his breath as a hungry beast stalks by. Such a silence generally announces the entrance of the city watch, coming to arrest some drunken lout dancing on the tables, or even the drawing of knives and swords when idiots in their cups come to blows. The apparition of soldiers clad in the dark red armour of Solitude's guard, all of its members sworn followers of our High King would always guiltily silence those that seconds earlier swore bloody revenge on every last supporter of the usurper. Politics... enough to drive a woman mad sometimes.

However, the entrance that cast a dramatic, paranoid silence into the room was not that of the guard, but rather a lone figure, unfamiliar, unexpected. A stranger. An unknown. In the patron's mind, a threat, a possible spy. In mine? A footnote. While the sudden, and welcome, silence made me take notice of the newly arrived patron and the measured cadence of his boot falls as he made his way towards the bar, my eyes did not linger on his cloaked form for more than a few heartbeats. For good or ill will, I have long since lost my fascination with traveling adventurers, travelers or assorted sellswords, being a mercenary by trade myself, and one who has traveled all across Skyrim in the past decade. Generally I am the one causing silence and attracting glares whenever I make an entrance anywhere, although a month working at clearing the marshes surrounding Solitude from a sudden and unexplained infestation of frostbite spiders, chaurii and trolls had helped the locals warm up to me. I almost trusted the bartender enough to turn my back on him while he poured my drinks now. Almost.

It made the entrance of the man even more of a footnote in my mind that I was busy studying a map of the surrounding burial sites and caverns, the usual lairs of the creatures I had been exterminating at a satisfying premium for the past few weeks. While the creatures had been a problem, the Jarl's steward who hired me was wise enough to realise they were a symptom, not the cause of the actual disease. The true question was now what had driven normally insular creatures like giant spiders and cave trolls from their lairs and to the surface, a question I was intent on tackling at first light the following day. The stranger was not worth my time, as long as his presence here did not involve daggers or spells pointing in my direction. Even on the wages of a royally appointed mercenary, tavern brawls are a costly hobby.

And this is how this fateful night found me; hunched over my maps, my thoughts on caverns, coins and the ever present debate whether to throw a few septims away or not for some company for the night. The latter was a more complex calculation than one might think, balancing my conscience and its distaste for my occasional hiring of prostitutes against the pressure growing in my loins I hadn't sated in over a month, far more than the coin in my purse. Taking advantage of another woman's desperation never sat well with me, reminding me too much of certain vicious creatures I had trained long and hard to track and eliminate. In the wake of the economic vacuum left by the secession of Skyrim from the Empire, desperation was not all that uncommon to come by. In these hard times, many young girls, especially those not of pure Nordic blood, grew up begging for their sustenance, only to move on to whoring themselves out for it when they came of age (or often even sooner, as much as the thought sickened me); there was little chance for them to improve their lot from there. The more cunning of them would find their way to the thieves' guild or some other conglomeration of petty criminals. Others would, by some charitable or divine intervention, find the strength to walk a path similar to mine, living by the sword, their heads held high amongst men. Most of the rest would wither away in the shadows of a world that was, for the moment, too absorbed in its grand struggles to notice the ones it left behind and forgot.

_My, we are in a gloomy mood tonight, are we not?_ I thought to myself, running a hand slowly through the tangled mess of my wild, untameable hair, debating whether I could delay calling upon one of the women servicing the room for one more night. Thinking too hard about their situation would not miraculously change it. Though I was not deluded enough to think they somehow truly enjoyed their encounter with me, I was intimately convinced a night spent in my arms could not be as unpleasant to the women I paid as spreading their legs for the first drunken oaf who tossed a septim their way. Would that I could spare their dignities in the same way I spared their bodies pain, but my need was slowly coiling itself tighter than a drawn bowstring low inside of me. I needed release, and soon, but finding a willing lover that shared my own preferences was not the most common of occurrence, especially when I was constantly on the road, rarely staying in one place long enough to get to know someone well enough to share their bed. Other than the occasional adventurous tavern girl or curious country maiden, neither of which were available tonight, prostitutes were my sole option, distasteful as that option may be.

Resigned that I could not hold back my craving any longer, I let my gaze be drawn to a Redguard woman garbed in clothes distinctly lacking in modesty going around the common room, trying too hard to look fetching and coquettish for the benefit of her potential customers. She was young, barely more than a girl, to be perfectly honest, her body still gangly and skinny from a rough adolescence, and not used at all to plying her charms. Whereas many of her 'sisters' had been successful in reeling clients for the night, the young Redguard had yet to find her mark, despite the hour getting later and later. I could tell even from a distance that she was getting desperate, and I wondered if she would have a roof over her head or food in her belly tonight unless she brought in her share of coins. I did not care for the looks of the men she was starting to approach, and judging by their lack of female company, willing or bought, I doubted I was the only one. The matter was quickly settled in my mind. She was not strictly to my tastes, although her legs were definitely captivating, but the thought of her spending the night with one or more of the ruddy louts made my skin crawl. It was hardly honourable of me, but taking her upstairs with me once I retired would at least keep their paws off her for one more night.

_Hypocrite. Such a flaming hypocrite... _ I gave a quiet mirthless chuckle at my own sudden protective impulse towards a young woman I planned to use and discard. Better hygiene and a more careful touch between the sheets did not make me any less ridden by my baser impulses than they were, as evidenced by my eyes raking my intended lover's slender frame. A more animal part of me was rising to the occasion to mentally undress her and imagine her naked, submissive and offered beneath me; I had to give my lust-clouded head a shake or two to break free of my dark contemplations. Oblivion take me, it had been too long since I had last felt the skin of another upon mine; though I held them in check, the urges were getting distracting, and I understood myself well enough to know ignoring them would not suffice for much longer. Abstinence was not a choice I could make for long.

Hastily, I finished plotting the route that would, come morning, take me to the nearest known frostbite brood lair so I could begin my investigation, the terrifying and loathed giant arachnids seeming to me like the most promising lead into whatever it was that was driving dangerous subterranean creatures to the surface in such numbers. I would be in for a few miles of hiking through difficult wetlands, but I could honestly only give the upcoming trek only a passing, dismissive thought. Before I even began putting the maps I'd spread out before me away, I took a quick look around the room for a waitress to settle my tab for the evening, only to freeze when I heard something that gave me pause.

The tell-tale sound of a purse of coins angrily tossed upon a hard surface cut through the hushed conversation like cheerful chimes betraying less than avowable intentions. It was a sound I always associated with a grudgingly delivered bribe, one that most often followed drawn-out and unfruitful negotiations. More worrying was the fact that the sound had come from the direction of the bar, where the stranger who had entered earlier and promptly slipped my mind stood, talking to the inn keeper in hushed tones I could not clearly make out. What I could see plain as day was the way the balding man was looking in my direction, which made a long string of mental expletives fill my thoughts. Immediately, I lowered my eyes back to the maps, hoping he hadn't noticed me noticing him and I hadn't squandered the element of surprise should the need for violence arise.

As discreetly as I could I pushed my chair back a few inches from the table, so I would have room to clear it if need be, and let my right arm slip into the broadening space between my body and the horizontal surface. My hand drifted slowly closer to my left hip, my index and middle fingers running slowly along the fine leather wrappings covering the handle of the long, wickedly sharp dagger I kept there at all times. My eyes traveled the roads and rivers etched into the worn paper without truly seeing them, my attention focused rather on my peripheral vision and my hearing. The stranger's boot falls resonated again in the somewhat quiet common room, louder and louder as he drew closer to me, making no effort not to be noticed, which did not befit any assassin worth their salt. Either the man meant me no harm, or he was confident enough to believe he had no need to surprise me in order to take me down. The realisation made me relax a fraction. If the former was true, there would be no bloodshed tonight; if the latter was, whoever it was approaching me so unwisely would likely not have time to realise the error of their ways before I slit their throat open.

I pretended to be absorbed in my maps until the stranger walked into my field of vision, waiting until that precise moment when I knew beyond doubt I was the object of his interest before I fully gripped the small handle at my waist, drawing the short blade a fraction of an inch out of its scabbard. Inhaling slowly through my nose I took in a deep but discreet breath, calming myself for the moment I would counter whatever his first move would be, either by ducking under the table if they flung a spell at me or pull them over it if they tried to swing a weapon. I was ready, ready to kill if need be, but as my exhale ended and I found myself inhaling again without having to spill blood to earn the right to my next breath, I realised I had overreacted. Still, I did not feel silly for bracing myself for an attack that never came. As my father often said, a killing blow can come from your own failures more easily than your opponent's merits.

Yet without lifting a finger, the man, and the stranger under that cloak was indeed a man, still managed to surprise me, although he did in a manner I could have scarcely braced against.

"Astlyr." I gasped when the man quietly spoke the two syllables of my name with a calm assurance, as if he knew my identity beyond a sliver of doubt. My eyes instantly went from the table top to his face, narrowing as my nose crinkled and the corner of my mouth curled into an annoyed scowl.

"If you have any business knowing that name, then you should also know I have not gone by it for a long time." I replied evenly after swallowing the sudden surge of annoyance. The light from a nearby candle cast deep shadows into the hood he had not drawn back, obscuring more than revealing his features. Out of habit, I gave my mysterious interlocutor a quick once-over, hoping to gain some insight into who he was. The cloak itself was little help; it was thick and as well-tailored as it was well-worn, the standard garb of any adventurer interested in surviving Skyrim's inclement weather long enough to be gored by some of its less hospitable fauna. If not for its light tan colour, I might have mistaken it for my own. What lay under the cloak however, was far more telling. The man was in full armour, but of a make and style quite uncommon to these parts. His was not the typical hide or leather armour worn by the gallery of rogues and brigands that gave the roads of my homeland a veritable taste for blood, theirs or their quarry, or the ornate steel or iron cuirass commonly favoured by serious (or not so serious) soldiers of fortune. Instead, his armour consisted of a chest piece made of carefully woven plated mail, worn over a light gray arming doublet that fell to his mid-thighs. Sturdy leather pants protected his legs while still granting him critical mobility in the event of a scuffle, and his feet were protected equally well from glancing blows and frostbite by thick buckled boots. As the cloak parted when he reached upwards to pull back his hood, I also noted the assortment of pouches and satchels hanging from a number of belts around his waist, as well as the seemingly simple war axe suspended in an iron loop at his side. How strange that once again, if it was not for the differing colours, I might have mistaken his attire for my own. Well, there was also the obvious difference that my armour had been forged with the curves of a woman in mind, but the style and utility was unmistakable; it offered more than decent protection, without encumbering the wearer with the rigidity and bulk of full metal plates. Though familiar to me, the armour was more than unusual enough to draw the eye of the inn's clientele, as evidenced by the murmurs I heard coming from a neighbouring table.

"Dawnguard..." An awestruck man declared somewhere to my left, coming to the same conclusion I had seconds prior. Although I was puzzled that a commoner would know the armour of the reclusive order by sight, I paid them little heed, turning my attention back to the stranger's face he finally allowed the light to touch. Like me, he was dark of hair and fair of skin, although his loose brown hair looked insouciantly ruffled where mine was simply wild and unruly the second I shook it loose from its braid. His feature exuded a rugged charm, and there was an easygoing look in his eyes that contrasted sharply with his attire, or the carnage I knew he was capable of unleashing.

"Celann." I rigidly nodded my head to the vampire hunter, and my former comrade in arms.

"Eleanor, then. It _is_ still Eleanor, right?" Celann mockingly asked me, making my eyes narrow again. "I seem remember that was the latest name that struck your fancy."

"It is a good name. And more importantly, it is a name I earned." I replied, trying and failing not to sound defensive. There were reasons why I did not go by the name my mother had given me.

"Ha. Right. You and your issues. I had hoped striking out on your own would give you time to get over them. Shows what I know."

"My issues with that name are my own, hunter." I told him off, not the slightest bit amused by his teasing. "They are not yours to mock or dismiss, nor are they the Dawnguard's. Especially not the Dawnguard's."

"As you wish, _Eleanor_." Celann said with a touch of irony before nonchalantly seating himself across from me.

"No, by all means, do not remain standing. Have a seat." I dryly said, and gestured for the bartender to send over some drinks. I might have been none too pleased to see him, or any representative from the Dawnguard save for a few, but what kind of Nord fails to offer a drink to someone who stood at their side in battle, no matter how poorly their last meeting went? "What do you want?"

"I was also worried you would greet me with a blade. I'm glad to know I was wrong, and you've kept your cheerful disposi-." He was cut off when, already exasperated, I finally drew the dagger I had kept handy, and in one smooth motion drove it hard, tip first, into the wood of the table between us before casually reclining comfortably in my seat. "Oh. I see. You have greeted me with a blade after all." Although I knew Celann was not, could not be truly intimidated by my small outburst of aggression, it made me feel marginally better that I had managed to silence his glib tongue, if only for a moment.

"Celann, for your information, I have spent most of today knee-deep in a freezing swamp, covered in spider and troll gore." I sighed morosely. "I have another hard day ahead of me tomorrow. No, I am not pleased to see you, nor would I be pleased to see any other member of the order. I would say it is nothing personal, but we both know what a lie that would be."

"Yes, we do." Celann acknowledged after several long seconds holding my gaze, my last declaration accomplishing what a dagger sinking into solid wood could not and humbling him. "Forgive me. When I began looking for you, I was clinging to hope you might have forgiven the order, or at least those of us who stood by while Isran excommunicated you."

"There are few things I wish to linger upon less than that day." I warned him, my voice a low growl. I fell quiet for a moment as the bartender placed mugs of chilled mead before each of us, a disapproving scowl on his face at the sight of the dagger still sunk in the table. How terribly unfortunate for him that he had the lack of judgment to point Celann my way... "What. Do you. Want?" I slowly enunciated each syllable, fatigue and hunger eroding my patience with my former comrade at an alarming pace.

"I want you to come back." Celann declared after a few moments of terse silence he filled by taking a gulp of his mug. I blinked. "We need you." He gave me a steady stare as I blinked again, hoping to clear away the red rim threatening to engulf my vision. I was not successful.

"_Excuse me_?" I nearly stood up and shouted at his ludicrous request. "You need me to come back?!"

"I believe this is what I said." Celann calmly replied.

"And _I_ cannot believe the nerve he has to send you-"

"No. Don't put words in my mouth, lass." Celann interrupted me. "I said 'we', as in the Dawnguard, need you. Not Isran. As far as he knows, I am only bringing word of a new threat to the Jarl of Solitude. The situation across Skyrim is severe and becoming worse by the day, but not so much yet that he would..." _Apologise_? "...you know."

"Of course he did not send you." I raged, my anger still as fresh as the day I last saw the fort the Dawnguard called home six years ago. Some wounds are simply not meant to heal, as evidenced by this jagged gash the rejection of my former comrade had left upon my heart. "Isran would not know to apologise to a mother dragon for trampling her nest! Why would a mere mortal such as me warrant such a lofty honour?"

"You are preaching to the converted, lass." Celann calmly tried to appease me. "You know not all of us were happy when he showed you the door."

"I can count them on the fingers of one hand, in fact." I spat out.

"When I heard of a mercenary with strange armour and weapons cleaning up the marshes by herself back in Morthal, I followed my gut feeling and swapped assignments with Mogrul so I could come to investigate." He shrugged, seemingly oblivious to the stormy mood his words were evoking in me. "Even if it had not been you, I might have found a decent recruit."

"A decent recruit..." I scoffed, burying my face in my hands in an attempt to keep myself from shouting. "By the Nine, I cannot believe this. Give me one good reason why I should walk back into fort Dawnguard like nothing happened. Just one!"

Celann regarded me grimly for several long seconds, his hands rolling the pewter mug around in a thoughtful tick. "Very well." He finally said. "We need you because for the first time in nearly a decade of existence, the Dawnguard is not simply providing a handy service to this land. In fact, we might finally be as desperately needed as Isran always said we would be."

This gave me pause. In fact, it brought me to a screeching halt. The Dawnguard is an organisation devoted to one purpose and one purpose only, and that is the extermination of vampires, wherever they may be found. While being dedicated to the hunt of the craftiest and most vicious breed of undead to ever walk Nirn sounded like a valid goal for those with the stomach and the mettle to go toe to toe with the beasts, in reality the vampire problem, in Skyrim at least, had never been bad enough to truly warrant our..., their presence. In most cases of vampire infestation, the folks of Skyrim tended to turn to the Vigil of Stendarr, a martial splinter group of the faith of the god of justice and mercy, one that dedicated itself to defending the faithful from all manners of unnatural threats. Their specialty might be daedra and all of their manifestations in our realm, but they would not eschew the chance to fight a vampire or two, and in their brief history this was always a sore point of rivalry between the two orders. In the end, while I could attest that the Dawnguards were hands down the better fighters, most common folks preferred to deal with a stern but kind-hearted missionary able to both strike down that which they could not and provide healing and comfort, rather than a lone, nearly fanatic hunter clad in esoteric armour wielding weapons and knowledge the likes of which they had never seen. Our... _their_, rigorous training and extreme methods were never warranted. Back in my days, the Dawnguard mostly worked thanklessly behind the scene, finding and eradicating vampire nests and tracking down the beasts that hid in plain sight amongst their prey. The impact we had was never felt, simply because the problem was never bad enough for people to take note of it in the first place.

"What do you mean?" I asked Celann, the first inkling of worry quieting me. "The last I heard, the Vigil was doing a good enough job of keeping the vampire troubles suppressed. They might lack our... your thoroughness," I caught myself, but a corner of Celann's mouth nonetheless lifted in a joyless near-smile, "but a few stray vampires are not much more dangerous than your average rogue mage or necromancer."

"I see the news hasn't reached Solitude yet. I wondered." Celann said with a slow glance around the mostly peaceful common room, filled with only murmurs of discontent at simple political matters. "Eleanor, the Vigil is gone."

"What!?" I uttered in disbelief. By the Nines, how many times could I be struck dumb in one night?

"It is the truth. The Hall of the Vigilants has been burned to the ground, and most of the vigilants, including their Keeper, are presumed to be dead. There are a few stragglers here and there, but they are disorganised and lost without the guidance of the clergy and their superiors. We're the only ones left who can hold the tide."

"Hold the tide? You mean..." My eyes widened when he nodded. "_Vampires_ did this? Are you serious? When have vampires ever dared to act out so openly?"

"Never." Celann responded. "It gets worse. Many of the smaller settlements down south are practically under siege. Hjaalmarch, Falkreath, the Pale, there are hundreds of the beasts out there, infesting every dark nook and cranny during the day only to come out at night and take whatever and whoever they want. The guardsmen simply cannot hold their own, and with our armies guarding our borders against Imperial or Elven incursions, they cannot count on reinforcements. Scores of citizens are already dead or missing. They are gathering strength, and we fear it will not be long before they turn their attention to the larger cities, like Whiterun, Windhelm and Solitude."

"I think they might already have..." I whispered, lowering my eyes to the map still spread out between us. A vampire infestation of this magnitude would certainly explain why subterranean predators were suddenly being ousted to the surface. Vampires needed someplace to rest during the day, and they certainly would not share their lairs with vermin. "What else would drive every single cave creature in a fifty miles radius from its lair but..."

"... a concerted effort by a horde of vampires looking for shelter." Celann completed for me. "Did you encounter any of the beasts out there?"

"Only the evicted tenants of their new lairs, but only a fool ventures into the Haafingar marshes at night. I did not want to risk my skin pointlessly. It would certainly explain much, however." I mused, my anger and annoyance at my interlocutor's presence all but forgotten. "What course of action is the Dawnguard going to follow?"

"Right now all of our veteran hunters are out there in the Hold capitals, trying to keep the streets clear at night. Solitude is the last major city we have left to secure." He pointed to several locations on one of my maps showing the whole of Skyrim. It made sense that the hunters would be coming here last, since the former capital was the most distant city from Riften, far to the south east, where the Dawnguard made its home. "We have also stepped up recruiting efforts, which is how I heard about you, as I've said. Isran, Gunmar, Sorine and Florentius are working day and night back in fort Dawnguard to whip our new recruits into shape."

"How bad is it?" I asked, knowing that during times of crisis, the need to field troops had a tendency to outweigh the usefulness of properly training them first. The philosophy of the Dawnguard had always been that quality trumps quantity; hunters were taught a high degree of self-sufficiency, and trained to a ridiculous extent in the use of an array of techniques and weapons. With a prey so vicious and cunning, every ounce of that knowledge was needed not only to succeed but live to tell the tale. To send someone half-cooked against any vampire more than a few years old is practically a death sentence.

"Bad." Celann said, wincing for the first time tonight. Going by the face he made, I was inclined to believe him. "Most folks who heed our calls are farmers or commoners who lost loved ones to recent vampire attacks. They are looking for vindication, and they lack neither motivation nor spirit, but... we would be in better luck than we are now if a third of our current crop had ever held a sword properly in their lives. We have no basis to start teaching them our ways when they barely know the hilt from the point, so Isran and Gunmar have to start from the ground up. A few may make decent hunters yet, but the rest of them will most likely end up as fodder."

"And Isran will just send them out there regardless?" I asked, and cursed under my breath when Celann nodded. Our potential recruits back when I had been part of the order had been mercenaries or professional soldiers, guardsmen or the odd marauder wanting to turn his life around. Basic sword drills were not something Isran and I ever had to worry about six years ago.

"He has no choice, though I doubt the man is too broken up about it even so. At the very least they can wear the armour and give a town the appearance of security. It may give the vampires pause to see twenty men on the streets instead of two. Otherwise, we will be bogged down. Our hunters are holding the line against them, but while we work to keep citizens safe, we're not out there finding the source of all these vampire attacks. We can only stop the infection from spreading for so long before it overtakes us all."

"And you have no clue, none whatsoever, of where these vampires came from."

"Some idea where they came from, of course. Other vampires." He replied with dark humour. "In all seriousness? None. We're just as much in the dark as the rest of Skyrim, and by Talos, it is getting darker and darker out there."

"Gods damnit..." I swore again.

"I know the last thing you want is to come back to Riften," Celann diplomatically said, "but we can ill afford to go on without your help. I implore you, at least consider. Whatever transpired with Isran, the two of you have to put it in the past where it belongs."

_Isran never told them?_ I arched a brow, taken by surprise by this unexpected revelation. The order had never been told the reason why one of its most seasoned members had been so suddenly expelled?

"I don't know if this is an issue that _can_ be laid to rest." I said, absently fingering the silver ring on my right hand, baffling myself that I was no longer enraged by the sight of my former comrade, and much more importantly, for even considering forgiving Isran. "Besides, I am only one woman, who has not hunted vampires in six years, I might add. What good can I realistically do, if the situation is so dire?"

"Ha!" Celann scoffed, for good this time. "You? You, of all people wonder this?" He eyed me knowingly, leaned forward and murmured, "I may have no business mocking your issues with your name, but Astlyr Stormblade is the very last woman in Skyrim who has a right to doubt the impact a single person can have." And just like that, I was annoyed by his presence once more. "Besides lass, the day you lose your edge is the day I hang up my ax and become a baker."

"Be careful with such oaths, old friend. You never know..." I darkly left the words hanging, but as he downed what was left in his mug, Celann rightly looked as worried as a hungry dragon staring down a rabbit. I had most certainly not lost my edge, no matter how long it was since my sword tasted the blackened blood of a vampire.

"I have to get back to the men. We will to report to the Jarl first thing in the morning, get the guards up to speed and organise a night watch. Farewell, Eleanor. I hope your reunion with Isran goes well. I wish I could be there to see it." Celann tipped his head to me and stood up, his gloved hands pulling the tan hood of his cloak back over his face.

"I never said I agreed." I called out after him, but the smile plastered on his face never wavered. "I don't have to, especially since you just cost me a contract!" Somehow, I doubted the steward would pay me to investigate the cause of the marshes' infestation once such a convenient scapegoat was dropped in his lap.

"Of course not. However, I'm sure leaving Gunmar, Sorine and Florentius to fend for themselves will sit well on your conscience. You know that the greater the hindrance we become, the greater the odds the Dawnguard will go the way of the Vigil." He trailed of, and I hissed at the mention of the three Dawnguard members I still held up as friends, my eyes narrowing.

"You swing below the belt, hunter."

"Not my fault you have more to hit down there than most men I know." Celann countered good-naturedly. "Dawn approaches, Sister." He told me when I failed to take the bait, before leaving the inn behind to rejoin his fellow Dawnguards.

"May your courage last the night... Brother." I whispered the reply to the traditional Dawnguard farewell under my breath, long after the door shut behind Celann. Better to be safe than sorry; I would never hear the end of it if he heard me reply. Sighing and weary, I motioned to the bartender I was done for the night before wrenching my dagger out of the wooden table and slipping it back into its sheath.

"Will there be anything else?" The acrid old man asked me once I had handed him the count of gold I owed for my supper and drinks. I opened my mouth to tell him no, but my body, no longer distracted from its urges by Celann's presence, chose that moment to remind me we had unfinished business. My blood began simmering with need anew, and I shuddered discreetly with the urge to touch another.

"The Redguard over there." I took a glance over my shoulder to see if the young woman I had set my sights on earlier still had not found her mark. Sure enough, I found her sitting on a bench by the entrance, her head in her hand and a desperate look in her eyes that all but confirmed she would be sleeping outside tonight.

"Lyna?" The inn keeper looked surprised for a moment that a woman would require female company for the night, but once it wore off, he snorted almost disdainfully. "You shouldn't bother. Pretty face on that girl, but she's not all that in bed. I can find you better."

"I do not remember asking." I nearly growled. "Send her up to my room. With a bottle of Alto wine." I added and fished a few more septims from my coin pouch for the wine. I could pay the girl for her services in person. That way, she would at least see the colour of that coin before her 'protector' took his share.

"Hum, there is also the matter of the table..." The old man trailed off, something in my tone wisely making him uncomfortable.

"Take the price out of your latest bribe." I replied with a dismissive wave of my hand.

"What? Now wait just a damned minute!" He began to protest, greed overthrowing his sense. Foolishly, he gripped my right forearm as I began to walk away, his stubby fingers tightly encircling the leather of the studded bracer I always wore when out of armour, as if he could somehow squeeze his gold out of it. My head whipped to the side in his direction, and I immediately ground to a halt, my stance instinctively widening and lowering in preparation for a quick dodge, block or strike. My grey eyes hardened into a steely glare, thoroughly cowing the sleazy man into letting go of me.

"Consider it a lesson into respecting your paying customers' privacy, barkeep." I said with a touch of snide humour. "Send her to my room, and make sure we are not disturbed until morning."

I turned again and left the slightly bedazzled man in my wake, feeling his wide, frightened eyes tracking me every step of the way as I climbed the stairs leading to the second and third floor of the inn, where my room was located. A fragrant scent filled my nostrils as soon as I pushed the door open and walked in, wafting from the laboratory setup I had rented and installed in the corner in prevision of an extended stay. The quiet bubbling sound of potions distilling over a small everlasting flame stirred the silence in a familiar and deeply comforting way that made me smile peacefully. Alchemy always had a very soothing effect on me. Something about the absolute attention it requires always takes my mind off matters for a time, just like meditating or maintaining my weapons and armour. It represents the calm before the storm, giving me the assurance that preparation, along with my skills and experience, will see me through the next ordeal.

_But what ordeal would that be?_ I wondered distractedly, the night's revelations still spinning madly in my mind. A vampire invasion? Could there even be such a thing? It seemed to go against everything I knew of the fiends. While they certainly had the power, as well as the contempt towards men and mer to dream of attempting something as ambitious as the Dawnguard suspected, there was one insurmountable hurdle I knew would always stand in their way; the sun. While vampires were fearsome by night, daylight sapped a great deal of their unholy strength away. In all but the oldest, it deprived them of their magicka reserves, slowed their speed and reflexes almost to a crawl, and profoundly exhausted them after only a short exposure. They would be cut down in a matter of days if they became too much of a problem.

_Yes, they would be, if the king's armies were not occupied with repelling Thalmor and Imperial raids along the coast..._ I grimly thought. Could this be nothing more than inopportune timing on the fiends' part? An arrogant festival of bloodshed and slaughter that would end on its own once we repelled the threat from without and could focus once more on the one from within? Unheard of, but not impossible. I might have dismissed the thought of working with the Dawnguard again if it was the case, but if Isran truly did believe the vampire hunters were truly finally needed... I was tempted to trust his fanatic instincts. The day he said he told the ones who doubted him so would be bad, for everyone.

_Sleep on it._ I finally decided. I could not do anything tonight, regardless of whether decided to rejoin the ranks of the order or not. Hastily, before my company for the night arrived, I took the potion off the fire and gave it a twirl to test its consistency. The liquid had concentrated into a thick sludge in the hours since I had left it to simmer. Although it required a bit of insistence I poured what was left into a small tin of waxy polish, and used a copper spoon from my apparatus to mix the two together into a smooth, shimmering paste before capping the container and putting it away. Under normal circumstances I would have treated my gear immediately, but preparing the magic resistant mixture was all I had time for before a knock at the door announced the arrival of the young Redguard. Not that I actually assumed it was her, and didn't reach for my dagger as well as the door handle.

"M-my lady." She stuttered when I opened the door to let her in, her deep brown eyes downcast and her pretty face framed by a cascade of dark, dark curls. She held a simple serving tray in her unsteady hands, upon which rested a dark green bottle and a single silver goblet.

"Come in." I told her quietly, my features softening a fraction as I stepped out of the way. The girl jerked into motion and walked past me, her nervousness as obvious as the moon in a cloudless night sky. Breathing in deep, I shut the door behind her and turned to face the room, my fingers beginning to play upon the buckle of the bracer on my left forearm.

"I'm s-sorry if I kept you waiting." She needlessly apologised as she put down her tray on the smaller of two tables in my room, the one I had kept for private meals that was not covered in pieces of armour and assorted weapons. "Here, let me get you some w-wine."

"It's not for me." I told her from across the room, where I set the pair of bracers down amongst the rest of my gear. She mustn't have heard me, or else her nervousness kept her from understanding the implications of what I said because I found her facing me when I turned around, timidly extending the goblet of wine to me. Still she wouldn't make eye contact.

"It's for you." I whispered, taking her quivering hands in both of mine and gently pushing them towards her face, and she emitted a quiet sound of surprise when I brought the rim of the goblet to her lips and tipped it encouragingly so they dipped into the rich red wine. Her large eyes darted to mine, the look in them reminding me of a skittish doe about to flee. She stood perfectly still and tense, like she expected me to strike her for daring to taste the wine, but as one heartbeat gave way to another and I made no move other than convey my approval with my eyes, she gathered enough assurance to have a taste. Smiling reassuringly, or at least I hoped I was, seeing as I could think of little else other than stripping her clothes off, I let my fingers slide along her arms, relishing the feel of her smooth cinnamon-hued skin. Gently gripping her tantalisingly exposed shoulders, I lightly pushed her back until she was sitting on the bed, then settled myself next to her, close enough to touch but not so much she felt smothered.

"Thank you..." She murmured, a shiver passing over her as I began to rub small circles over her shoulder. "I... I'm sorry if I seem nervous."

"I don't think you _seem_ nervous." I throatily chuckled and moved my hand to the base of her neck. Her muscles were taut and tense, and my caresses instinctively changed into firm kneading, making the young woman sigh and her lovely brown eyes flutter close. "I think you _are_. You've never been with a woman before, have you?"

She shook her head, unsurprisingly. "I don't have a clue what to do." She admitted, still quiet as a mouse. "I can please a man, but I... I'm afraid I'm going to disappoint."

"What to do?" I smiled and brushed her hair off her shoulder, exposing the long lines of her throat. "You're going to finish your wine." I said, my lips ghosting against her skin for the first time. "And once you do, I will show you." I pressed more firmly into her, drawing a reedy sound of surprise and near-delight from her, and for a time, pushed away thoughts of old acquaintances and dusty oaths long since abandoned. My inner struggles could wait until morning.


	2. A Journey Begins with a single step

A/N: Since I forgot to do this last chapter, I'll do it now. I own none of the rights to the characters and other intellectual properties put on display in this work of fiction. It is written and posted for fun, not profit.

Now that my ass is semi covered, here's part one of "Heirs". Thank you again for clicking that link. This part is pretty short by my standards (around 15-20k words usually), and maybe not the most thrilling piece of litterature you'll read today, let alone in your life, but as the title says, every journey starts with a single step. Astlyr has to get introduced and get on her way, before she can start her adventure, and meet the lady you probably came here to see. :) I hope you enjoy.

Part one: A journey begins with a single step

Dawn found me several hours later when I awoke with a start and a quiet gasp, just as the sun finished peeking over the horizon, lighting the coastline of Solitude and the dull grey sky ablaze in a spectacular tribute to Kyne's glory. My breathing was erratic from the last dissipating figment of the dream I could scarcely recall with any lucidity, beyond incredibly vivid flashes of sensations, and an unparalleled feeling of freedom. Swallowing thickly, I took a quick, instinctive glance around the growingly familiar room, just in case it was not the dream but something else that had woken me. Noting nothing out of the ordinary, I let myself back onto the feather mattress, sighing with longing to be back into oblivious simplicity of the dream world, and out of the morass of my near future. I had not been awake for a minute, and already Celann's plea for aid was worrying at my heart and mind.

_I could simply walk away... _ I mused, staring blankly at the ceiling. _To Oblivion with Isran and his lot. _The tempting thought floated fetchingly in my head, but I did not need to search deep within my soul to know I was being petty to consider it. If I did pick up the mantle of the Dawnguard again, it would not be for his benefit, but that of Skyrim. And perhaps for the three members of the order who had nearly argued Isran's ears off on that final day I spent in fort Dawnguard years ago. I may not have remained in contact with them, but their loyalty to me had been the only boon in one of the darkest moments of my life, when all I had striven to achieve came crashing down around me.

_And I have a chance to earn it back..._

A shiver and a low groan coming from my left cut my considerations short, drawing my eyes to the lovely bared back of the woman who had shared my bed last night. My abrupt awakening may not have roused Lyna from her sleep, but it had dislodged the blankets we had drawn around ourselves once the fiery passion of our earlier embrace had subsided. While the morning chill hardly bothered me, the fierce sun of the great Alik'r desert of her homeland, so very far away, was as much a part of her as the long winters and the abundant snowfalls of Skyrim were of me. Already she missed the heat of my body. A melancholy sigh parted my lips as I scooted back over to her, moulding my body against her back, and drew the blankets back to our chins. Even in the dim light, my very light complexion positively shun against her exotic, dusky one, a contrast I took the time to appreciate as I cocooned the young woman's slender frame with my more muscular body, sharing with her a warmth and safety I doubted she had felt in a long time. As soon as she stopped shivering, my eyes lightly shut. I pushed the nagging guilt I felt at using her away and savoured the liquid satisfaction coursing through my limbs. Lyna might not have had experience with a woman before meeting me, but she had proven herself to be a quick study, her mind as nimble, once it was unburdened from anxiety, as her body. The fire in my blood had subsided, for now, leaving behind a pleasant, lingering energy in my relaxed muscles. Lying there, idly listening to the quiet hiss of the alchemy laboratory and the deep, restful breathing of my young Redguard lover, I felt very little inclination to move, an unusual occurrence for someone suffering from quasi-constant bouts of wanderlust.

"Hmm..." Nearly a half-hour passed like this before Lyna shifted in my arms and began to mumble. "Are you awake?" She asked, quietly enough not to wake me, if I had not been, and I replied with a smoothing stroke of her thick, luscious hair.

"It's early yet." She said, noticing the way the sun had just barely begun streaming in through the room's window. "Did I wake you?"

"No." There was little nervousness in her voice when she inquired, but I was quick to reassure her nonetheless, her fear of disappointing the expectations of her protector all too fresh in my mind.

"I always was an early riser." I declared, making a small mental addendum of the years I spent first as Isran's apprentice and then as the second in command of the Dawnguard, once we reformed the order. I had become mostly nocturnal by then. As a popular book said, 'when tracking your prey, you adopt their habits.' An appropriate quote pulled from 'Immortal Blood', author unknown, a two-bit novel about vampire hunting, and one that fell quite far off the mark, as was to be expected. Still, that part was true. "How are you? Slept well?"

"Nothing... hurts. That's new." Relieved I was not upset at her, Lyna rolled around to lie on her back so she could face me, her body wedging itself more than halfway under mine in the process. The shy young Redguard gave me a hesitant look before licking her lips and reaching up for me, her fingers gliding in my hair and lightly gripping a few locks so she could pull me down for a kiss. My eyebrows rose, the initiative surprising me, but I nevertheless returned the kiss; I consider myself a giving lover, and despite the less-than-ideal circumstances of our night together, I had a growing suspicion I was the only one she ever shared herself with who gave more than a passing consideration to her enjoyment.

I shared a questioning look with her between two kisses, frowning at what I saw. She nodded in reply, and with a breathy moan, anxiously resumed her exploration of my mouth. While one hand held my mouth close to hers, her other one began to roam my side, tracing the curve of my hip, drifting to the hard panes of my stomach where her fingers lingered, their final destination obvious.

"Lyna..." I stopped her just as her fingers brushed the dark curls nestled at the apex of my thighs. It was my turn to sound winded; I would have gladly agreed to one last tangle in the sheets, were it not for the motivations I suspected the young Redguard to harbour towards me. "Lyna, that's enough." I reluctantly reached between us and pulled her hand away before she could explore my body further. "You have fulfilled your side of our arrangement. There is no need for this."

"But I... I want to." The young Redguard whined, incomprehension and confusion emerging in her lust-clouded eyes. _And therein lies the problem_, I thought. There was passion in her eyes now, true passion, as well as the first glimmers of something genuine. It was a childish response, to grow sweet on the first person she had shared a taste of true intimacy with, but it was also precious, a sign that there was some remnant of wonder the world had not yet pounded out of her. A woman who paid her for sex had no rights to these feelings. "I will do it for free. I don't care about the coin... Please? Make an exception and sleep in late?"

"I can't. There are matters that require my attention." This was not a lie, nor an excuse, at least. "I need to be on my way. Soon."

"Stay with me, just for a little while." She pleaded in near desperation, her tone betraying how very lonely this young woman really was.

"You deserve better than this." I apologised as I pulled away from her, despite her attempt at pinning me down with a wounded stare. I was sorely tempted to remain, to let her cling to the illusion for a little while longer, I truly was, but my conscience was now firmly back in control of my actions, not my aching loins. I felt guilty enough using her to last me a long time already. There was no need to add to this burden further. Disentangling myself from the bed sheets, I stood up and walked to the room's dresser, where I had hung the innermost layer of my armour, a pair of leather pants and a sturdy, simple cotton shirt. I needed to get outfitted and on the road. Dressing this way, I would not need to change again after I ate breakfast.

"You're the first one, you know. The first one who gave a skeever's rear end about me." She whispered, the pain in her eyes tugging at my heart, making me look over my shoulder back at the warm bed I had just left. Lyna had sat herself up against the headboard, the sheets drawn tight around her chest to cover a modesty I personally did not feel. "Don't tell me I deserve better than this, when 'this' is the best I have ever had!"

"Lyna..." I sighed her name, mentally cursing the fate that would make her hold a night spent whoring herself out up as anything desirable. I walked back to her side of the bed, holding her gaze unyieldingly so she knew I was not coming to join her. Facing her, I sat down with a quiet shuffle of fabric and a soft creak of wood, and placed one arm across her waist, the hand of the other gripping the edge of the bed, pinning her in place. It was a dominating posture I adopted, but I held back enough to make sure not to overtly frighten her; there was a part of myself that would simply never take well to being challenged, whether it be physical altercations, or accusations born of heartache. "I will not pretend to know what your heart longs for." I told her softly. "But I do know this, me, is not it."

"How? How would you know that!?" She tried to snap at me, but like her patron the night prior, there was something in my eyes that made her shrink away from me as I leaned closer. "You don't know what it's like to let some drunk pound you like a slab of meat, just so you won't starve or freeze to death. You were not like that..."

"I know, because I have not even come close to offering you anything that would warrant affection. Taking the time and care to pleasure you does not make me any nobler than any other man who has taken you to bed." I murmured in her ear, letting my breath spill over her cheek and her throat, just barely reining in the desire to press my teeth down around her jugular. "You are confusing the satisfaction of your needs as a woman with love. If I believed that satisfaction to be all you were after, I would not dream of rejecting you, but taking advantage of your confusion would be worse than paying you for your body. Do you understand?"

"No..." She said, her eyes downcast, and beginning to brim with tears.

"Someday, you will." I replied, two fingers of my right hand tucking beneath her chin to bring her gaze back to mine. "You will fall in love, and look back on this moment, wondering how you could mistake something so base for true feelings." It was a bit wistful on my part, to declare with any assurance she would find her way out of the life she was forced to live now, but that was another issue altogether, and a battle I could not fight for her. With a final kiss to her forehead, I left Lyna to mull my words over, and this time she did not protest my pulling away. I felt her eyes tracking my every move as I planted my feet on the floor and strolled back to where I had left my clothes, a quick glance over my shoulders confirming that it was not exactly the fall of my hair that had the young Redguard captivated. Perhaps she had at least gained a new appreciation for her own preferences out of this...

I scoffed a quiet laugh and indulged in a private half-smile for a moment before slipping on my smallclothes and shirt, hiding skin as well as my assortment of scars, from view, but before I could lace the garment up, I was interrupted by three quick raps at the door. With a precautionary glance at the longsword leaning against the nearby wall, next to the table I had laid my gear over, I moved to answer it. A young man stood on the other side, one I recognised by now from the many times he had knocked at my door during my stay.

"Good morning, my la-la-la... dy..." His cheerful, if a bit slumbering, greeting dissolved into an inarticulate sputter at the sight of my semi-nakedness, and the fully nude young Redguard still brooding in my cooling bed.

"Breakfast?" I cleared my throat and mildly asked the young man. Quickly, he averted his eyes from my cleavage, an embarrassed blush reddening his youthful features, despite the fact I clearly was not cross with him. Like I said, modesty was not something I overly burdened myself with; had I been ashamed of my state of undress, I would have slipped on my trousers and laced up my shirt before answering. Besides, a small eyeful was not entirely undeserved, considering the hour he had to wake to see to my morning meal.

"Y-yes." He answered, clearly using up some of his willpower to make eye-contact with me. "Will you b-be having the usual?"

"For two, please." I acknowledged with a nod.

"Of course. Right away." His answer was rushed, and so was his step as soon as the words were out of his mouth; seeing him nearly running down the hallway, you would have thought he was trying to outrun a rabid wolf, not fulfilling a meal order.

I ate my hearty breakfast with a distracted mind, a fair share of my attention on the maps I had once more pulled out. I was giving rejoining the Dawnguard some more consideration, but before I committed to tearing this old wound open again, I needed both proof and a motive for this supposed vampire uprising. There was clearly _something_ out there that required addressing, but I needed to know if I could best do my part for my homeland as a full-fledged vampire hunter, or by remaining an unaffiliated mercenary. I had to track down whatever it was that had those vampires riled up. That particular trail began at the Hall of the Vigilant, or so my gut told me. The simple truth was that the Vigil of Stendarr was not a big enough threat to warrant being singled out and purposefully stamped out, as Celann claimed it had been. There had to be something there, some other reason why vampires would mount what certainly sounded like a full-scale assault against a relatively minor nuisance. Perhaps something that would shed some light on their reasoning. It was worth investigating.

_Plus, the Hall is not exactly out of the way..._ I mused as I took a bite out of an apple, chewing the fruit thoughtfully while my eyes traced a route from Solitude to the city of Riften, on the other side of Skyrim. It would take at least a week, more likely closer to two, to make my way to fort Dawnguard, but at least investigating the Hall would not require much of a detour on my part. Even if I found nothing there, I could at least take a moment and pay my respect to the fallen. There was a core of genuine righteousness and caring under the Vigil's pompous and self-important discourses. The warrior in me simply had trouble taking a group seriously when they, for example, refused to use blades so they would not shed the blood of their Daedric preys, claiming it tainted the very ground of Nirn. Fanatical zeal and religious devotion were no substitute for rigorous discipline and exhaustive training.

My mind made up, I stole a glance at my companion. The promise of food had finally drawn Lyna from the lingering warmth of the covers, and once she was dressed she had dug into her meal with great aplomb, wolfing down eggs, ham and toast. Filling her empty stomach had cheered her up somewhat from my earlier refusal, and though I would hazard a guess she was not strictly happy, she looked composed and none the worse for wear, for which I was grateful. In fact, she seemed quite fascinated with the assortment of weapons and armour pieces laid down in precise order a few feet away. Particularly captivating was the unusual, highly compact crossbow I, and the Dawnguard, favoured over more traditional ranged weapons. While a skilled archer could knock and loose arrows quicker than even my practiced hands could load and arm a bolt in a crossbow, the weapon had advantages, especially in more crowded or claustrophobic environments such as caves or tombs, haunts vampires tend to favour. For one, it was far less cumbersome than a bow for its range and power, and unlike a bow, it could remain cocked and ready to fire at a moment's notice. The sturdy wooden stock was also quite handy in a pinch, as evidenced by the several cracks that splintered the surface of the weapon, scars left over by a great many skulls I had used it to cave in. It was well worn, and to be perfectly honest nearing the end of its life; it had served me well over the years, but I lacked the know-how to properly maintain it. No matter what I attempted, it pulled to the right now, and although it remained almost comically reliable in its inaccuracy, I knew the day was drawing near when I would have to retire the crossbow from my arsenal and find a replacement.

"I thought you were just a mercenary. Are you a vampire hunter as well?" Lyna finally asked me in between spoonfuls of oatmeal and snowberries, surprising me. Again, someone who recognised the tools of my former trade by sight. Had the vampire situation deteriorated to the point where ordinary citizens would know and welcome the sight of a member of the order? How could I have missed it?

"I used to be." I replied, feeling curious. "How did you know? Do you recognise anything?"

"Yes." The Redguard said, her eyes still locked on the crossbow, which she pointed out of my assortment.

"Here?" I asked and picked up the weapon from the table, handing it to her so she could satisfy her own curiosity. "You saw a crossbow in Solitude?" Whatever Dawnguard member she had seen would have been a long way from home, but it was not impossible by any stretch of the imagination; such a large urban center is sure to house any number of the fiends at once. Cities are rich hunting grounds, both for them, and for those hunting the hunters.

"Yes. Maybe two or three winters ago, there was a rash of murders in the more rundown parts of the city. The victims were mostly foreign beggars and whores, so of course, the watch didn't give a skeever's rear end about it." Lyna replied a bit distractedly, looking captivated by the intricate mechanism she was holding. I hear that once upon a time crossbows saw fairly wide use, but these days, they were rare, exotic weapons few people bothered with, not when a bow provided a much simpler option for ranged combat. Plus, despite her current occupation, she was still a Redguard, a people rightfully renowned to be the most naturally gifted warriors in Tamriel. It is said any weapon would find its home in their hands. "Three men carrying bows like this one approached me and a few other girls about it, though. They said the ones guilty of those murders were vampires, and they needed our help to find them and put them out of our misery."

"What happened?" I asked. "Did you know something?"

"I didn't. Neither did any of my friends at the time, but I do recall hearing about a well-to-do merchant found floating in the bay with a few of those little arrows sticking out of his back not long after." Lyna said, looking grimly pleased by this fact. "There should have been an inquiry, but the court wizard intervened. She declared he was a vampire, and that whoever killed him had done Solitude a favour."

_Sybille Stentor..._ I thought with a slight narrowing of my eyes, remembering the frightened, hushed whispers clinging to the court wizard's every step. _Yes, if the rumours about you are true, you _would not_ object to a competing predator being put to death, especially in your own city._ Magic can only lengthen a life for so long before longevity begins to look suspicious, and the woman had all but whelped the _former_ King, to say nothing of the odd prisoner vanishing from the castle dungeon from time to time...

Lyna handed me back the crossbow, and I in turn laid it back down amongst my arsenal, in between the quiver of bolts and the plastron of my armour. The young woman's gaze scoured every gleaming surface and every sharp edge, taking in every scratch and every small tear of my well-traveled gear, the few remnants of her breakfast all but forgotten. The corner of my mouth quirking indulgently, I asked her if she wanted to help me get outfitted. Morning _was_ slowly but surely getting away from me, after all.

Surprisingly, Lyna made for a competent assistant, her mind catching on to the logic and workings of my armour as swiftly as it had learned those of my body. In minutes she was helping me strap down the russet arming coat I wore under the vest of plated mail protecting my chest, and making sure every strap and buckle was securely tied. Then came the pauldrons, both of them adorned with the sigil of a different deity, one of the few embellishments the armour featured. The left one, worn over the shield arm, was emblazoned with the symbol of Stendarr, all members of the Dawnguard pledging their shield to the defence of the meek, the weak and innocent unable to protect themselves from the nightmares the night spewed forth. The right one, covering the shoulder of the sword arm, bore the sigil of Arkay, god of the dead, to whom vampires and undeads were aberrations; just like the shield arm was pledged to Stendarr, the sword arm carried out the sworn duty of the Dawnguard, to return vampires to Arkay's cycle of life and death.

Lyna looked quizzical when she finished securing the pauldrons over my shoulders. "Those are not Nordic deities." She pointed out astutely. "They're Cyrodiilic, are they not?"

"Good eye." I congratulated her as I gave the leather straps a tug. "You are correct. The Dawnguard is not a Nordic organisation, or rather the current incarnation is not." There was a sordid story behind the original Nordic order of vampire hunters, one dating back an era or two, and I was none too proud of it. The current one was largely mirroring the Cyrodiilic Order of Virtuous Blood, at least when it came to the ritualistic and spiritual aspect of hunting vampires. "The head of the order is actually one of your kinsmen. They were influenced by a number of similar societies and orders all across Tamriel."

"Ah." She nodded, her gaze still on the sigil of Arkay adorning my right shoulder. "Which one do you consider your patron deity? Arkay, or Stendarr?"

"Kyne." I replied without hesitation. Yes, once upon a time, I did serve these two gods on a practically daily, or rather nightly, basis, but my heart has always belonged to Kyne, the mistress of storms and ruler of the sky.

"Not Kynareth?" Lyna asked, and I shook my head. No, I meant Kyne, the Nordic fierce Nordic deity, not the tamer Imperial version popular in the lands to the south. As a woman who lives by the sword, having a matron goddess, as merciless as she was breathtakingly beautiful, speaks to me on many levels. "I suppose there _had_ to be one authentically Nord thing about you somewhere." She ruefully muttered under her breath.

"And I am quite sure I do not appreciate the implications of that last statement, girl." I told her with a mixture of amusement and reproach. I knew what she meant, but those were still my kin she was talking about. I was not fond of our newfound isolationism, but I liked to think there were some Nord values worth embracing, no matter what colour your skin or the blood in your veins.

Flustered, and looking very conscious of the foot she had just stuffed in her mouth, Lyna shuffled away from me under the guise of fetching my plated mail vest. A warning about its weight died on the tip of my tongue, her sudden, surprised grunt of effort a small revenge on my part. Smirking, I shrugged on and buckled the mail she painstakingly handed me with smug ease, feeling more comfortable with the armour on than I did without it a few moments ago. That would change after a few days' travel, but now that I was well rested, well fed and sated, I had begun looking forward to getting back out on the road. As I said, wanderlust.

The only parts of my armour I did not trust Lyna or anyone else with were my several belts, and the assortment of pouches, sheaths and quivers hanging off them. I always put them on myself, in exactly the same order and fashion. The small ritual was not performed out of any particular obsession; rather, experience taught me it would not do to fumble clumsily for a bolt on the wrong hip, or to coat its tip with an ointment meant to treat burns rather than a paralysing poison. In the middle of battle, familiarity with one's own gear could mean the difference between life and death. For the same reason, I still used the armour, weapons and most of the methods and techniques of the Dawnguard, despite the constant reminder of what I had lost they represented. Sentimentality has no place in a struggle to the death, and I would rather not rearrange my tried and true fighting style to fit new equipment over a little heartache.

The first belt I put on, the broadest and sturdiest, carried my weapons, most notably my sword, dagger, as well as the quiver of bolts I used for my crossbow. From the second one hung a number of pouches and satchels, containing the alchemical concoctions that could give me the edge I needed when the odds were stacked against me; stimulants for those long nights the hunt drags on, brews that could decuple a man's strength, vision and reflex enhancers that made an archer capable of pinning a mockingbird in flight at a hundred paces (metaphorically, of course, stop looking at me like that), and perhaps most importantly draughts that could stop hemorrhages and help mend broken bones. Opposite those were the vials of poisons I frequently coated the tips of my bolts with. Most Nords eschewed the idea of employing toxins against an opponent, finding the practice dishonourable somehow, but I embraced both aspects of alchemy, the life-giving and the life-taking, equally. A poisoned bolt from a crossbow would slow anyone down.

The third and last belt I wore across my chest like a bandolier, and it was easily the strangest, the sight of it feeding Lyna's curiosity until it was all but palpable. No weapon or pouch hung from it; instead, its sole purpose was to bear a mechanism a little larger than my outstretched hand, a little marvel of engineering my old comrade, and former lover, Sorine Jurard had designed and hand-crafted. The Breton woman was a genius tinkerer, with a sometimes unhealthy obsession for the technology of the Dwemer, the long extinct race of deep elves. That obsession had served the Dawnguard well in the past, providing the order with a bleeding technological edge, one of the most useful of which was their shield. Based on the same principles as some of the 'simpler' Dwemer automatons, the shield was made up of three concentric layers of overlapping metal blades. When in use, it looked like most any other targe carried by warriors favouring a 'sword and board' approach to melee fighting, but its apparent simplicity bellied the wonders of reverse engineering that had gone into its design. With a simple flick of the wrist it would fold upon itself, allowing it to become no larger than a small buckler for an improved ease of transport, which is where the contraption on the final belt came in. Its long metal claws could fit into grooves on the back of the shield and lock it into place on my back without need for a sling, and just as easily release it in case a hasty change of tactics was required. Quite handy in a pinch, and just like the crossbow was less cumbersome than a conventional bow, when it came to raiding a vampire nest, oftentimes smaller was better.

Suffice to say that if the crossbow had fascinated Lyna, demonstrating how the shield worked positively made her swoon, at least after she gave a startled shriek when the metal wings began folding onto themselves. I hung the shield with a smooth, practiced swing of my arm, releasing the bindings with confidence once I heard the familiar click of the mechanism locking it into place.

"That is... incredible!" Lyna gushed, fascination making her deep brown eyes shimmer gleefully.

"It is." I said distractedly, my gaze lost in the distance, focused on the past. How strange. In the past six years, I had outfitted myself exactly the same way hundreds of times, and yet this morning my little ritual seemed momentous, significant.

_If you do rejoin the Dawnguard, you will get to see Sorine again._ I told myself, finally allowing the one thought I had pushed aside all night and all morning. I sighed, momentarily lost in memories of the other woman I both dreaded and cherished.

I remembered the day we had met vividly. Sorine had been an associate of Isran long before I came into the picture, and when the idea of reforming the Dawnguard first took shape in his mind, he sent me, his apprentice, out in Skyrim, searching for the help we would need. One of them was a young Breton prodigy who had poured her people's renowned intellect into her pursuit of Dwemer technology, or so Isran had told me. When I did manage to track her down, I found Sorine on the bank of a river running close to Markarth, raging against crabs, of all things. Needless to say, hearing a future member accusing common mudcrabs of stealing her satchel had not left the best first impression on me back then, but I quickly found out, once I fetched her bag she had merely misplaced, that her quirks of personality did not change the fact she was brilliant, and actually reliable in a fight. Despite her tendency to get distracted by shiny objects, we had gotten along well enough for me to end up as her favourite test subject, whenever I returned to the fort between hunts and other assignments. Of course, Isran had wanted her expertise to craft weapons and other tools for our use, so helping her test her contraptions had resulted in one or two of the scars criss-crossing my body. It had also lead to her semi-guiltily visiting me while I recovered, a few blushes when she was present during a dressing change, and eventually many passion-filled embraces over the years. While I would not say that I was head-over-heels in love with her, she was doubtlessly the woman I cared the most deeply about in the past decade...

"_I know you're upset right now, but you're not thinking this through. We do good work here. _I_ do good work here. If I go with you, some day, we're all going to regret it."_

... Or at least she was, until the day I was excommunicated from the Dawnguard, and she protested vehemently in my defense, only to refuse to leave with me when all was said and done.

"Is... something the matter?" Lyna asked me after a few seconds.

"Hmm? No." I shook my head and snapped out of my ruminations, my nose somehow filled with the sweet scent of Sorine's hair, the salty taste of her skin dancing on the tip of my tongue. "Could you hand me my gloves?"

With my crossbow slung on my back, my cloak covering my shoulder and my satchel beating rhythmically at my flank, I left Lyna in my room with a purse of gold several times larger than what she normally charged her clients. Even if the inn was not a proper brothel, if such a thing can exist, it was simply ridiculous for her patron to charge so little, his earlier greed leading me to believe he kept most if not all of the profits from his girls. Maybe it could give her an out, if she played her cards right. She had a quick mind that one, even if she was still innocent. Maybe she could find herself an apprenticeship with one of Solitude's blacksmith or another craftsman's guild.

The marketplace was my next stop, first and foremost so I could tell the local alchemist I would not be needing the laboratory in my room any longer, and he could send his assistant to fetch it. Next was the butcher shop, where I picked up what I calculated was enough rations of cured venison to get me to Riften and halfway back, and then the bakery for a loaf of bread and traveling biscuits, as well as a slice of goat cheese. The bread and cheese I could eat first before they spoiled, while the rest of the food would keep fresh for a while longer. It was better to put off eating those as long as possible; I'm not a particularly picky palate myself, but even I could grow tired of rations on long treks. More telling of their taste than the endurance of my stomach, but it beat wasting time hunting my food, even if I was an accomplished huntress of edible preys as well as undead fiends.

The sun had fully risen by the time I finished my preparations for the journey ahead, and made my way to the main Solitude gate, getting harassed by street peddlers and assorted beggars along the way, as well as a lone urchin who made a pass at my purse of gold. The young rascal got quite the fright when he found himself hoisted off the ground and nearly face-to-face with me, glaring until he lowered his gaze in shame. With a harsh huff of annoyance I dropped the teenager down and gave him a shove. The would-be pickpocket stumbled, but his scramble to get away from me before I called the guards was interrupted by a sharp whistle. He turned around, just in time to catch the septim I tossed him. I might not appreciate thieves, but I disliked starving children even more. The lone gold piece could feed him for a few days, if he was smart about spending it.

The view outside the south Solitude gate was as wearying as it was grandiose. The southern edges of the city rested upon a sheer cliff edge, ending in a massive stone arch where the Blue Palace, the former residence of Skyrim's High King, laid its foundation. The northern sea made its sinewy way inland below, irrigating acres and acres of salty marches, filled with twisted, hardy plants and gloomy shadows hiding much of Skyrim's most vicious animal life. I had gotten to know them well in recent weeks, and if there was a single solace in this whole affair I was about to plunge headfirst into, it was that at long last I would not be heading that way, and spending days at a time drenched and frozen to the bone.

There was a soft slant to the road making its way down to the low valley below from the main, second and third gates, taking me to the stables set up in a decent-sized artificial clearing turned into pasture, spread out in the lowlands surrounding Solitude. Three scores of horses, of all shapes and sizes, grazed and paced the large enclosure maintained for them on the side of the stables' outbuilding, peaceful and lazy in the mid-morning sun. Confidently, I pushed the rough wooden fence open and strolled in, many pair of equine eyes settling nervously on me, a few of the horses even going as far as huffing and rearing, to the dismay of their caretakers.

"Ah, good day, Lady Eleanor." One of the stable boys, a young man of Imperial descent I recognised from prior visits approached me, breathless from his run to my side, having left the others struggling to calm down the riled beasts. In fact, it seemed that a lone palomino stallion, towering above every other horse in the enclosure, was the sole animal to keep its calm since my arrival.

"Julius." I nodded to him as he fell into step with me. "I am taking Frost out this morning. Please saddle him up."

"You are? That's... good. The poor boy has been looking anxious to stretch his legs for the past few days." He replied, trying to sound neutral and failing. His tone was rather discomfited.

"Is something wrong with him?" I asked, though the young man did not look nearly nervous enough for me to worry. "I will be quite cross with you if anything happened to my mount on your watch." I said with a sharp teasing note.

"No, no! I would never dream of letting any harm come to him, my lady! I swear on my honour! I'm just... just sad to see him go, my lady." He finally admitted, just as we reached the lone calm horse in the enclosure, the tall palomino stallion, my dearest Frost. "He's such a good horse that one. Makes the lot of them look like overgrown skittish sucklings." Julius grunted over his shoulder at a young Nord woman who just narrowly avoided a kick from a nervous mare, falling flat on her rump in the process. "By Talos, I'm sorry you have to see this. I have no idea what's gotten into them this morning."

_I may have a clue what did..._ I thought, averting my eyes from the commotion surrounding us.

"I'll fetch your saddle right away." Julius sighed and declared, breaking off a long, wistful look at my horse, and took off at a light jog, leaving me alone with the only companion I had kept since the day I left the order all those years ago. Frost's grand sire had been a gift to my father some time before my birth, and ever since that day his bloodline had been a part of the Stormblade estate. Like his own father before him, Frost's name had been handed down from his sire, a right only the most exceptional foal we bred could earn. Nearing ten years of age, he was as solid as a stallion could be, and more disciplined than any war horse. My pride and joy, he was one of two things I had gladly kept once the estate came to me, the other being my father's sword sheathed at my hip. The rest I had left in my home city of Whiterun, a prosperous commerce hub far to the south east, on the central plains, entrusted to the care of Fjorli, a childhood friend and my current Housecarl. I seldom visited my own home these days; too many memories, and far too many failed expectations.

"Will you be gone for long, my lady?" Julius asked me once he was done saddling Frost.

"I will be leaving Solitude for a few weeks at least, yes." I answered the discomfited young man who stepped aside to let me load up the saddle bags with an assortment of provisions and camping equipment. "Thank you for taking good care of him, Julius." I gratefully patted the young man's shoulder, Frost echoing my sentiment with a friendly nudge of his massive head that nearly toppled his caretaker. Blushing, he muttered a response and reluctantly bid me farewell, before turning away and dashing to open the gate for me, casting Frost a mournful look as the steed and I passed him. He promptly snapped out of his longing stupor once I was out of the enclosure, reminding himself of his comrades' distress and diving headfirst into a fray of riled horses and colourful curses.

"Quite the charm you cast on that one." I ruefully told Frost, though I suspected he could sense the unease I felt at the scene my arrival had caused. I could only hope none of them had made any rapprochement between my presence and the horses' frightened frenzy.

Fortunately for me, a dull, distant noise shook the air just as I left, conveniently assigning blame to a wholly different scapegoat. All eyes instantly flew upwards towards the sky, just in time to see the dragon swoop in over the bay, its bone shaking roar causing a fresh wave of nervous whinnying to erupt from the stables. The wyrm was not an impressive specimen of its kind, only about thirty feet long from muzzle to tail, and with a wingspan to match. Moldy green scales covered its slithering body, while black, bony spikes protruded from the length of its spine. Rows of jagged teeth filled its gaping mouth, on obvious display for the benefit of all the mortals below. It was only posturing, of course. No dragon had dared openly attacking a human settlement since the defeat of the World-Eater, the almighty semi-god Alduin.

The Dragonborn I mentioned may be famous for turning the tide of the civil war in the Stormcloaks' favour, but it was his victory in Sovngarde, the realm awaiting most Nords in the afterlife, of that most terrible of foes, that had inscribed his name in legends. Venturing past the doors of death to enlist the aid of the heroes who had cast adrift the dragon in the currents of times millennia ago, he had finally put an end to one of the greatest threat ever to befall the whole of Mundus. Upon his return, he found every single dragon alive had gathered upon the slopes of the Throat of the world, the highest mountain in Tamriel located in the center of Skyrim, awaiting word of their king's return. To say the wyrms were surprised to see a mortal emerge from the portal to Sovngarde, in Alduin's stead, would be the understatement of the era. Fate, and its sense of humour at work.

Rather than a massive battle to end all battles, one that would have likely ended with many dead dragons and likely one human martyr, the terms of the Dragon Pact was established that day. Using the power of the Voice, the Dragonborn declared to the whole of Skyrim that the World-Eater was defeated, and the dragon crisis over. Rather forcefully, he struck a bargain with the dragons that, as long as they lived in relative peace with men and mer, their race would not be hunted back into extinction. Not the most beneficial agreement for a race of quasi-immortal predators who once ruled the whole of Mundus with a fist of iron. Still, with furious cries of "Dovahkiin", the dragons submitted to the mortal who fell their king, proving once and for all that he was the strongest, worthy of every title his exploits brought upon him. Harbinger, Dovahkiin, Ysmir, Stormblade... I had an altogether simpler name for him. Father.

"You know the law, wyrm." The world around me faded from my awareness as dragon tongue flowed quietly from my lips, its power quaking the ground, imperceptibly within the drowning roar of the dragon circling overhead. My hand came to rest on the pommel of my sword, a blade that had to be infamous amongst dragon-kind for all of their blood it had shed in my father's hands. "Do not test your boundaries. Leave." It made no sense for the dragon to hear me, but the Voice and the dragon tongue are peculiar like that. Reptilian eyes filled with scorn fixed on me with a murderous intensity, flaring with recognition. I stared back unflinchingly, my blood thrumming with the need to fight and conquer the pathetic foe that dared to challenge me, my muscles steady and relaxed with the confidence that I was the stronger of the two.

"Leave or by Kyne, I will make you understand mortality." I snapped at it, using its roar to cover up the sudden thunderclap of my own Thu'um from prying ears, a reflex I had learned brow-beating young, weak dragons like this one into leaving populated areas. The older, and actually dangerous, ones, strictly kept to remote, mountainous regions, and to themselves. Whether they were happy or not with the status quo was anyone's guess, but I had a feeling they feared the gods would once again side with man if they tried to achieve their former dominion, as they had long ago when our ancestors were enslaved by dragon-kind. It was within their power to allow the blood of Akatosh to flow freely into mortal veins, appointing other Dovahkiin the task of exterminating the wyrms once and for all. Only the younger, weaker dragons felt insecure enough in their power to flaunt it to humans and elves they terrified, rather than each other.

There was a dissonant note in my voice when I forced the word for 'mortality' in the dragon tongue, a concept that was alien to the death-defying flying lizards, and by extension the language that was utterly intrinsic to them. The dragon word for mortality had been created by men, eras ago, as a means to combat dragons. Simply hearing it assaulted a dragon's very soul, to the point where pouring my Thu'um into it could turn it into a Shout infinitely unpleasant for a wyrm to be on the receiving end of. If that particular runt thought he was the exception, he was wrong, as he quickly found out. Even without shouting it, pronouncing that word had made him flinch, and wisely break eye contact with me. With a final, half-hearted roar, a prideful attempt to get the last word in, the wyrm turned tail and flew away like a beaten dog. Only once he disappeared beyond the horizon and the last echo his presence had caused faded did a strange, hollow sense of disappointment set in. My own dragon soul had been looking forward to putting that runt in his place, namely six feet under.

_And Hermaeus knows how many of these men would have died in the process?_ I berated myself for my eagerness to provoke the wyrm, and took a deep breath to shake off the last of my bloodlust. Letting my hand drift away from the hilt of my sword, I took a quick look around, noticing nervous and relieved guards putting away bows and arrows I had been too absorbed in my staring contest to notice. With one leather clad hand I rubbed my face to help center myself as I exhaled, long and slow. _Breath and focus_, I reminded myself, _control the Thu'um, control the blood, do not let them control you_.

With a last glance at the quieting stables, I slipped my left foot in Frost's stirrup and hoisted myself up his considerable height, settling heavily on the saddle. The stallion never buckled, taking my weight and that of my gear without as much as a blink. Absently, I gave him a rough, affectionate rub of his white mane, before steering him down the road, eastward, towards the nearby town of Dragon's Bridge, the first stop on my journey to the Hall of the Vigilants.


End file.
